Myjusta, Witch Maiden
by Mersea
Summary: A young woman from our world navigates through the tale that is Middle-earth, unsuspecting that her presence—like an accidental blot on the page—is demanding the course of its history to be rewritten. Mostly AU.
1. Fool for a Day

**Summary:** A young woman from our world navigates through the tale that is Middle-earth, unsuspecting that her presence—like an accidental blot on the page—is demanding the course of its history to be rewritten. Mostly AU.

**Disclaimer: **I do not own any material pertaining to The Lord of the Rings or The Hobbit.

**Warnings: **I will admit three things, here and now, to spare you the effort of flaming and confusion;

**1) **This fanfic is intended to diverge greatly from canon at a certain point, thus making it alternative plotline if not alternative universe. You will also likely see me switching between the movie and book in the use of timeline/events/character roles as well. My intention is _not _to butcher J.R.R. Tolkien's work, but to give you fanfic readers something slightly different to read about.

**2) **I am not wise in the lore and history of the LotR universe (never read the books) but...just...not _completely _clueless. That being said, I am also not a writer who likes to explain how things were implicated in my fanfic. So, if you know, you know. If you don't know, just accept it as it is—most likely it was meant to be a mystery for the main character anyway. If you think I'm dreadfully wrong, then tell me. If you want to warn or inform me further, tell me. I will not disrespect those who are more devoted and more knowledgeable than myself.

**3) **When I write fanfics for other people's works, I feel especially inclined to try to love all their characters. This may result in canon side characters seemingly warm up to the main character quicker than would be realistic. Again, it is not my intention to butcher their characterization: I do because it gives me more freedom to explore given the restraints of a fanfic.

I apologize if any of the above offends you in my writing, however it is the way I choose to write and I ask your patience.

* * *

**Myjusta, Witch Maiden**

Chapter 1 _- "Fool for a Day"_

* * *

"My," she breathed softly, "would you look at this."

Trembling fingers lightly traced the surface of the wall mural.

The angelic Elven warrior remained unfazed by her touch, his entire focus trained upon his demonic foe.

Elven artists truly must be without peer. She even had to feel the flat surface to confirm that the images were indeed still and lifeless, on contrary to how they appear. Suppose if one had an eternity to devote to one craft, results like these could only be expected.

She was rather envious.

Upon noticing the sword on display next to her, she was, well, explicably drawn to it. It couldn't be helped that she would not get the chance to see many in her lifetime.

An Elven sword, perhaps? There were intricate gold patterns damascened onto the blade. Maybe...maybe no one would be offended if she held it for just a bit?

Her hesitation was only momentary.

Hand gingerly wrapped around the cool hilt. She squeezed one eye shut, half expecting to be struck by a punitive bolt of lightning.

..But, of course, nothing of the sort humoured her.

She let out her breath.

"Light," she murmured. It was light: This sword she held in her hands. Nearly, if not as light as the long knife Boromir insisted to be her weapon of choice.

The young woman raised the sword upright, and then noticed with sudden clarity that the Elven hero in the mural before her wielded this very same sword that was in her grasp. Who was he? An Elven king of old? A warrior of some renown? A noteworthy figure, for sure, if he had a memorial for himself.

All she knew was that it probably wouldn't be respectful of her to be waving around his possession any more than she had. Inconspicuously—as inconspicuously as she could—she replaced the sword with bated breath.

There. Nobody saw that.

With that thought she twirled around and her gaze met up with a pair of light grey eyes.

She could've screamed if it weren't for the feeling that her heart had just lurched up and lodged itself in her throat.

"I-" out came her choked response "-With Boromir. I wait here. Um." Her frenzied hand gestures seemed ridiculous even to her, but she couldn't help it. Had he understood? Had she made herself more suspicious?

Those grey eyes sparkled, and a rich deep laugh poured from his very being.

At the sound her heart did another furious lurch inside her chest, though for a very different reason.

If she had the fortune of hearing laughter so enchanting and sublime for the remainder of her life, she was certain to never feel the cruel bite of cold again.

"There is no cause for fret, my lady," the gorgeous Elven male spoke, and his voice was like music; his accent, magic. "Well acquainted am I with the language of Westron."

She was an idiot.

Then, robbing her of the time to mentally berate herself, the Elf bent gracefully in a bow; his glorious tresses of pure gold flowing over his white robe.

"I am Glorfindel, at your service," the angelic being introduced himself as.

"Glor...findel." She tasted the pronunciation on her tongue. Somehow it didn't sound the same when she said it.

His light grey eyes—eyes that sparkled with so much joy she couldn't help but liken them to diamonds—they peered up patiently, and she arrived at the realization that there was a certain response he was expecting.

"Ah!" How could she have missed something so obvious? "You...You are the one in this painting," she remarked in awe. Just for courtesy's sake she threw in a little extra reverence to go with that statement.

The arch on his refined brows twitched almost imperceptibly, and a corner of his lips tugged up.

"Your keen perception is to be commended, my lady." Though his body language belied anything but serenity, his youthful eyes were chuckling. "Have I not the honour of also learning your name?"

Instantly she realized that—far from expecting her to recognize him—he had been waiting for her to give her name. Her cheeks burned with the misunderstanding.

She really was an incorrigible idiot.

"My-Myjusta." It was brief and simple: Her response. What was the use of trying to appear graceful any longer? "My name."

"An unique name, I daresay it is like no other." The Elven male extended a hand with what might've been a mischievous smile.

An unique name. She would've thought so, herself. The young woman took his hand with an ironic smile in return.

_'The title 'Witch Maiden' suits you not? Then are you wonted to some fouler form of address for your name?'_

_'My-...just a minute!' _she had been about to demand, except her voice had choked up her in her indignity, and her broken response had been taken quite literally.

'Myjusta', she was now known as. How stupid. How ironic.

He had taken her hand into his warm grasp, and raised it to his lips. While she had expected him to brush his lips against her knuckles as was the knightly way of greeting a lady in this world, she hadn't expected him to upturn her hand to lay one at the base of her palm.

She wrenched her hand back with violent force, heart screaming inside her ears. What was that! That had been too close, too exceedingly close, she thought desperately. Her hand encircled the bandage on her right wrist protectively, and a shudder shook through her. It was almost as if he had known about it.

"Was there a reason you sought me, Lord Elf?" she asked in a low voice robbed of strength. Painfully was she aware that she was rude with her accusation and her actions just now. She simply didn't have the heart to make amends.

If he had felt any bit of offense at her reaction, it did not reveal itself on his fair features. He informed her courteously, "Lord Elrond bids you to see him, now."

"Right." Though, looking past him down the bright, cloistered hallways, she didn't know where she was supposed to be going.

Aware of her dilemma, the tall and golden-haired Elf extended a kind arm in offering whereas others may have been afraid, or indignant, after such a rejection. Truly a gentleman among gentlemen. Or was that gentle_elf?_

She accepted it wordlessly.

* * *

"This is where we part, my lady." All too soon, they have arrived before a very formal, very solemn set of double doors. "Lord Elrond awaits."

Could it be said that she was experiencing a dread akin to waiting trial?

She turned to glance up at him for the first time since they have embarked on that wordless yet strangely comforting walk.

"Thank you," she said in whisper. He nodded in acknowledgement, magnificent golden hair rustling. And to her surprise he once again took her right hand into his and pulled it towards him.

Hadn't he learned from the first incident? She thought that with dread.

But, the Elven male did not attempt. His flawless fingers cradled against hers, briefly pausing on the metal bands she wore on each finger.

"Fear not, my lady: you are in good hands."

The way his grey eyes sparkled warmly down at her, she almost believed it.

"Until I have the pleasure to meet again," he said, releasing her hand. He bowed with the elegant dignity borne by kings. "And I should hope that one day you will honour me with the divulgement of your true name."

It was a knowing smile that shaped his lips before he left her.

Honestly, these Elves were...

What was the point of sending someone like him to fetch her anyway? She shook her head and faced the doors. She sincerely doubted she would meet someone of his caliber a second time.

Her knuckles barely made sound against the tough wood. She frowned to herself and was about to reattempt, but a voice from within commanded, _"Enter."_

Alright. No use postponing the inevitable. Even if she was about to meet the one who would decide her fate.

In this world or other.

The doors pulled open to reveal a brightly lit room. Soft white curtains flowed vibrantly in the breeze coming from the large arched windows. She instantly spotted the tall form of Boromir by one of them, gazing out with his hands held behind his back.

"This is the one you spoke of, Boromir of Gondor?" At the mention of his name, the Gondorian captain glanced back over his shoulder at her. A curt nod.

"Come here, Child."

She obeyed. Why, she couldn't even have thought of doing otherwise.

What a commanding presence this man—no, Elf—embodied. His robes hung rich and regal off his powerful frame, and the silver diadem encircling his head marked his lordship over the Elves. On his extended hand was compassion; and deep wisdom on his brow.

She wouldn't have doubted that his was a presence even his worst of enemies would have respected.

He took her hand into both his own. At once something in his stern but serene expression changed.

"Recount to me once more," the dark-haired Elven lord requested with a brief glance at Boromir, "how she came into your companionship."

The Elven lord's intense gaze came back to her, but she herself looked to Boromir feeling a bit uncomfortable with the attention.

The Gondorian man took a swig from the chalice in his hand, wiping his chin with his sleeve before

answering, "Dungeons of Osgiliath."

He set the chalice back down on the small table next to him. A glass wine jar that was half-empty stood upon it. So he'd been drinking.

"Inside its sturdy walls was the last stand made by the Orcs, after our forces captured the gates. They were trying to escape, and she one of them: in their pathetic state of defeat they called to her in desperation, 'save us, Witch Maiden!'"

"Witch Maiden?" the Elven lord said with a sharpness to his tone that startled her.

Her heart sped.

"That-..."

Realizing that her tongue had slipped in protest, and that now she held the attention of Elf and man alike, she tried explaining for the umpteenth time, "I already told you: that was just a ruse..."

Already her defense sounded weak. She couldn't help if she were sounding dejected. She had never gotten him to believe her.

"I saw by my own eyes an Orc gave his life for yours!" Boromir retorted sharply, unusually on edge. Why? Haven't the two of them, by the end of their long trek to Rivendell, developed a sort of comfortable companionship?

No...Just because he had chosen not to bring the subject up...didn't mean that he had gotten to trust her.

"Go ahead and scoff at my mortal naivety in believing a human witch," Boromir boomed, flinging an arm in emphasis. "But confirm it for your own eyes! Lest I have traveled all this way for the security of both our peoples be for naught!"

To her surprise, the Elven lord, Elrond, answered with prompt confidence, "There is not the slightest clue to suggest this woman is a magician of any form. She is not a 'witch'."

It was as if her head went blank, not daring to believe.

Movement from Boromir caught her eyes. He was kneading his brow with one large hand, shielding his eyes as would a man in torment. "Then I have done you wrong," she heard him say brokenly. Blinking, she wondered if it would be too much to hope that his admission was directed at her?

"He is rightly cautious," Lord Elrond conceded with a pointed look at the tall—and in this case had been rather intimidating to her—Gondorian captain. "Although one's lack of propriety, not justly so." His stern but kind gaze returned to her. "If what you say is true, how came you to be left unscathed, Child? The Orckind are not known for their compassion, even to those of their own."

...

...It was finally here. The question she had been dreading.

They have a right to hear it from her, she acknowledged with a swallow. Might as well get it over with, now, once and for all...

"My Child?" Lord Elrond prompted gently, soothingly. It wouldn't surprise her if he had felt her anxious heartbeat from her hand which still laid covered in his.

She looked up into his empathic eyes and parted her lips to speak.

...

"...I am sorry..." With that, her gaze drooped despairingly. "I thought-...I thought I would be ready to speak-..." Her expression contorted to one of pain. "And-...I'm-I'm even an adult and yet-" Her hands flew to her forehead and whatever she meant to say was lost in her state of shame and self-resentment.

Before any words could be offered, before she had to see the expressions on their faces, she pleaded, "Please. Please send me home. Back to my world."

"Your world?" Lord Elrond asked, as she knew he was going to ask. "I am afraid I will require some explanation."

"Her world," repeated Boromir. "She spoke of one different from the likes of middle earth and the mystical places of Arda."

His interruption was appreciated by her. She was sure that if she had to answer Lord Elrond's question at that moment, she wouldn't have been able to contain her grief.

A contemplative pause.

"And what do you make of this, Boromir of Gondor?" the Elven lord inquired for his opinion.

She tensed.

"The woman speaks true."

Astonished, the young woman lifted away her hands to stare.

Pointedly ignoring her stare, the Gondorian captain elaborated, "Many a time in our travels had she spoken or asked about places or things in Arda, and yet her pronunciation of those nouns are off while the rest of her speech is flawless. Like she has read but never heard them spoken." A brief glance flickered her way, and quickly retracted.

Was...was that the case? Her cheeks heated up in embarrassment.

"And from this you have deduced the truth?" Lord Elrond pressured, seemingly someone not easily impressed.

"No!" Boromir was quick to deny. "There were signs, many more!" Again a hand went to his brow as a frown troubled him. "I was just a fool, adamant in suspecting she might pose threat to my people that I dismissed them all!'

"Lord Boromir..." she whispered. There was a lump in her throat, as she was touched by his sincere admittance.

Finally, maybe finally...she may have an ally?

"That may be it..." Lord Elrond acquiesced to say. His eyes shut for a moment in deep meditation. "This is beyond my knowledge alone. Boromir," the Elven lord advised him, "You have traveled far and thus are wearied from the journey. We shall speak on the morrow, and then will all your questions be answered."

The Gondorian captain recognized a dismissal if he heard one. There was only a brief hesitation before he replied, "Very well, then. For your hospitality toward an uninvited guest, you have my sincerest gratitude." He bowed his head to the Elf. For a moment the tall man glanced at her indecisively, then made his way wordlessly out of Lord Elrond's study.

The heavy doors clicked shut.

Suddenly, she felt very ominous.

"There were words," Lord Elrond said, "that I have withheld simply now; words perhaps best not meant for his ears."

With a gesture of extended arm and velvet sleeve, the Elven lord told her, "Have a seat, young one. It would be best if you did."

...Already she could tell this wasn't going to go well.

Shakily, the young woman lowered herself into the armchair he indicated to.

Looking up, she discovered the regal Elven lord facing his desk, his back to her and arms clasped behind him. From her view, with the light from the windows silhouetting his intensely dark hair and powerful black frame...it was like she was looking at a dark angel. An angel of judgment.

"What the man from Gondor said," Lord Elrond sought from her, "Is it all true?" His stern gaze found her. "No misconception, none more to add?"

Her gaze averted, her breathing became shallow.

It hadn't been a question, despite his firm voice. It had been a demand.

"Three weeks hence have scouts on our borders reported repeated Orc sightings. At times it could be overheard from those capable of speech," He had half turned to face her, now, a quizzical arch on one of his elegant dark eyebrows, _"Find her, the woman witch. Find her" _with emphasis _"the one can see the to-come." _

If it were at all possible, she would've shrunken in her chair.

"...I-..."

Two knocks sounded upon the door, before they creaked open without awaiting response.

"Impeccable timing, Mithrandir," Lord Elrond greeted the newcomer. "For there is much I have to seek your counsel on." He then added, "And Frodo?"

"Reuniting with family and friends," a chuckling voice answered him. It was a sound laden with a wealth of knowledge and empathy. A sound that compelled her to turn her head and acknowledge its owner.

Grey robes and long beard sauntered into view. Ah! A staff, as well. Was he-...?

"And who is this little one?" A pair of pale green eyes crinkled down at her.

"If I am to understand," Lord Elrond answered in her stead, given her awed silence, "a traveler from a different dimension with insight to our own."

Immediately Gandalf's—for she was certain he was Gandalf—expression changed as if he'd just been told that the Ents dropped an acorn and she had sprung from it. He looked her up and down, stole a fugitive glance at Elrond, and back to her again. But the only thing he said was a powerless, _"Owh."_

Her gaze dropped down to her lap, and she was silent under his scrutiny.

"This is the one they seek, bearing the black banner of Saruman," Lord Elrond informed him. She gripped the armrests tremblingly.

"Ah, yes..." Leaning both hands on his staff, Gandalf sounded well-informed about the Orcs that plague the forests of Imladris. "The 'Witch Maiden'."

The young woman looked up.

"...It is an old tale," the grey robed wizard started, pacing slowly to one side. "The Orcs invented it. The Orcs believe it," Gandalf said. She didn't know when he had lit his pipe, but now he drew on it. "That a 'Witch Maiden' would appear...and usher them into a new age of power and advancement."

"Gandalf," Lord Elrond's voice rung out with sharp authority.

"She deserves to know, Elrond," Gandalf answered with a leveled look, and some quiet authority of his own. "Be it for good or ill."

She...didn't like how that sounded.

A long breath of smoke puffed out, and his pale blue eyes burned into her. "And for whatever reason that is...those Orcs seem to believe it's you."

"But I'm not-" her protest burst forth, with dread twisting her insides "I am not a witch...!"

"Nay," Gandalf the Grey said in agreement, "that you are not. But," he pressed the question, "How much..." sagely eyebrows raising "...How much do you know?"

Judging by the look of serious concentration on his face, she didn't dare doubt she knew what he had meant by that.

"...A little..." the young woman replied hesitantly. She knew little, from what she remembered of the movies watched and the fanfics read long ago. "...And perhaps too much..."

With that admission finally out, she sunk back into her seat; exhausted and lonely.

"Who else?" he asked, no, demanded, "Who else have you spoken this to? It is dangerous knowledge indeed."

"No one..." she said weakly. "There is no one..."

Gandalf turned away with a sigh of relief, and tension eased somewhat between the occupants of the room.

"Can-...Do you know a way to send me home," brief pause, "Gandalf?"

The wistful blue eyes of the wizard looked back at her, and there was a sigh of a different nature.

"...I am afraid that would be difficult, my child."

He must have recognized the despair in her face, and with ages of experience dealing with troubled souls as herself, he came to comfort. "Do not lose hope, daughter of man: Whatever was made can be unmade; whatever path led you here can be retraced." Despite his encouraging words, his eyes wore a deep regret, and knowing. "I'm just afraid until a time indefinite, there are more pressing matters on hand..."

She shut her eyes.

The destruction of the Ring. And war.

She knew she shouldn't be any more selfish than this, but she couldn't help but feel crushed by the comprehension. The understanding that they may not have the effort to spare for her sake anytime soon.

"Fear not, little one," Gandalf offered the only reassurance he could for the time being, "You are safe here in Imladris."

"And I will see to it that your stay be a pleasant one, however long it turns out," the Elven lord, Elrond, chipped in smoothly. "Come, now. You must also be wearied from your journey. I will have someone see that your needs are met, starting with proper attire."

She felt more than a little embarrassed, wondering if her current attire offended their senses. It was actually one of Boromir's warm cotton shirts, though she used it as a tunic with rolled up sleeves.

The young woman rose with a heavy heart, and nodded once in mute obedience.

...She, too, knew a dismissal when she heard one...

* * *

Gandalf the Grey paced before the windows, silent agitation in his steps.

"The enemy is moving, Gandalf. Saruman's forces are encroaching upon our eastern borders. And the Great Eye is fixed on Rivendell."

The lord of High Elves would give no quarter in his reasoning.

"What has happened to you, my old friend?" Gandalf paused to look outside at the courtyard, questioning weary sadness. "Were you ever one to abandon a child to potentially face the same torment _she _suffered?"

"My people are leaving these shores," Elrond retorted sharply; sharper, for he had touched upon a topic hurtful. "The time of the Elves is over—We have not the strength to fend off both Saruman and Mordor!"

"And who will you look to once we're gone?" the Elven lord maintained his argument. "The Dwarves, hiding deep in their mountains, furthest from the reaches of Mordor? They will care nothing for the trouble for others until the Black Army is at their own gates, and by then, Mithrandir," articulating the next words forebodingly, "it will be far too late."

Silence resonated inside Elrond's study, as the Elven lord let his statement sink in.

Slowly, the Grey Wizard turned back with a solemn suggestion. "The daughter of man..." Gandalf said "...send her...with Glorfindel—the twins; an able protector, and leave her safe with good men of Eriador, where she will be harder to find among the rest of her kin."

"Men?" An abrupt counterargument. "Men are weak," stated Elrond. "Sooner would they betray ally and kin for their own gain. Men are not prepared to harbour a 'witch'. Men will not want to harbour a witch!" He spun away.

Calming just a bit, the Elven lord folded his arms behind his back. A soundless sigh.

"...Understand this, Mithrandir, my friend: Had you requested this three weeks hence, I would have given much consideration. Alas," Elrond admitted with a wistful glance, "deny if you would, but you have surely felt it as well."

"Our world is changing. To which cause and effect I know not." His grey eyes tired and burdened by the acknowledgement. "I have no one to spare, for the sake of my people in these evermore uncertain times. All I know now is only this."

The Grey Wizard, Gandalf, hung his head and nodded resignedly, already knowing what was about to come out of the Elven lord's mouth.

"The Ring cannot stay here," Elrond said with finality. "And neither can she."

* * *

The Elven female drew out article after article from the basket, appraising them against her shoulders before either tossing them on the bed or on the chair at her side.

She couldn't help but notice that they were, as expected, long Elven dresses capable of tripping her over with every step.

"Erm..." The wo-no, the Elven female looked at her in question. She assumed the Elf was young for her race, for she was bright of face and light of step. Really, there was no way to tell.

"Does there happen to be...pants?"

She had found that even though the Elf didn't speak her tongue, she seemed to be able to understand it. Although at the moment only a questioning look graced her lovely face.

"Er...trousers? Breeches? Um. Leggings?" she winced upon saying the last one.

"Ah." The Elven female replied quickly and fluently in Elvish, making several gestures with her slender white hands. And smiled.

...Alright. She was going to assume that she'd just be told she'll get to wear them in the future, and not that they were exclusive to men-er-to males.

The Elven female had chosen a simple white dress of lovely material, and she thrust it against the young woman. Insistently. She made gestures to the human's hair, and to the dress.

"...T-Thanks?" Maybe she was trying to tell her that it matched her hair. And not that her hair was in desperate need of care after her travels.

She wasn't exactly a positive thinker.

In fact, it had been nothing short of a miracle that she hadn't broken down during her encounter with Gandalf and Elrond. She and her desperate cling to humanly pride.

Nodding as though all was well and good, the Elven female gave her a pearly smile and retrieved the dresses on the chair. She said something in Elvish, and presumably left so that she could be left alone to refresh herself.

Alone at last, she fell backwards, deflated, onto the bed.

What was she to do, now...?

* * *

Evening had descended by the time she stepped out of the room allocated to her.

It was the sound of music that had roused her from her nap: There were many, and seemed to have come from many places inside the house of Elrond. It was like the entire place had come alive with music and song.

Somewhere close by, she thought she recognized the mythical notes of a harp being played.

Did Elves mind if they have an audience? She wondered, initiating an inner debate with herself.

Finally, her curiosity over seeing an Elven harp got the better of her, and she was drawn to the paths of the inner garden from whence the melody came.

The garden was simply magical in the twilight. Tiny wisps of light floated from the greenery in dancing, upward movements.

The harp player was seated on a stone bench with his back to her—assuming he was a male since he wore a robe and not a dress—his long fingers gliding gracefully over the harp strings. A song seemingly endless; alien to her but not at all unpleasant.

She watched, entranced and breathless, afraid that the smallest sound she could make would break the scene of serene perfection before her.

But, she only allowed herself a moment. Knowing that it was probably rude to disrupt, she turned quietly and was thankful that Elven fabric didn't seem to catch onto any branches.

The playing stopped.

Ah... Uncertain as to why, but certain that she was somehow the cause of it, the young woman glanced back delicately.

He stood and placed the harp onto the bench, then turned around to face her.

His white and gold-woven robes seemed somewhat familiar. As well as those laughing eyes.

"Ah..." she recognized. "You're-..."

Glorindel? No, that wasn't quite right. Gorewindel? "-you're-..."

She forgot his name.

"-beautiful."

Instantly one hand flew to her lips in horror. Of all the things she could've said to cover up the situation, how had it ended up being that?

"S-Sorry, I-..." Cheeks burning, she tentatively glanced up at his eyes, fearing his reaction.

If he had felt any reaction to show at her words, it only came forth as a humourous chuckle.

"What is there to be forgiven..." The tall Elven male's eyes sparkled as he stepped toward her. "Unless..." she detected a slight arch in his eyebrows "...You were being untruthful?"

She dropped her gaze in embarrassment. She had to be blushing furiously if even her jaw was aching from it.

How could that have been an untruth? Look at him: A solid build, and strong princely features; Bright red lips that hinted his vigor, and hair of spun gold. Easily the best looking man—...male she had ever had to chance to lay eyes upon.

But of course she couldn't tell him that.

Fortunately, he spared her from having to respond when he chivalrously offered her his arm.

The young woman stared at it, uncomprehending.

"...Has Lord Elrond...summoned for me?" she asked very carefully, already dreading.

Gentle laugh. "I offer you my guidance, my lady..." his voice really was like music itself: Intricate and divine "Seeing you have lost your way once more." Hypnotic, even.

She had already trustingly accepted his arm, then did a double take. "Where are you taking me...?"

He led her leisurely, and answered her much in the same manner, "Lord Elrond had a feast prepared in the Hall of Fire...in honour of a brave young hobbit's return to health."

And...what did that have to do with her? She puzzled. Earlier, she had been informed that if she wished it, food will be brought to her room.

Although...if she followed him...there would be a good chance that his name would pop up eventually.

Because, well, she felt just a tad guilty.

* * *

As soon as they arrived in the hall, his appearance was noticed by his kindred.

He was greeted by many in Elvish, who proceeded to make their way to him.

Though she couldn't understand a thing they said, she did catch onto the fact that he was well respected and loved by his kin.

'Glorfindel'. She would make an effort to remember that correctly this time.

As the Elven male lightly started to make way to the others, as well, she gingerly retrieved her arm from his care. She didn't exactly want to be part of the attention.

A questioning gaze assessed her, but all she did was to point at the dining table, and he let her go with a gentle nod.

...Good heavens, this was difficult...

It appeared by that time of evening many have already finished their meal, and were partaking in the merriments around her. She had no trouble finding an open seat—for there were many—in a spot she decided was adequately far from the head of the table to be safe.

Avoiding any curious gazes that would've been cast her way, the young woman helped herself to large servings of whatever she could reach, and whatever the serving ladies brought her way. It had been a while since she had warm and hearty food, so she decided she was to eat as much as she possibly could tonight.

The Dwarves were seated by themselves in another section of the hall, mainly avoided by the Elves; at a plain wooden table and benches fashioned to accommodate their shorter statures. She noticed them for they were loud, currently engaged in a drinking game that churned out uproarious laughter and the occasional belching. Two curious curly-haired hobbits, she noted, were watching from stools at the outskirts of the fray, drinks in hand and cheering for their favourite contesters.

She looked around the hall, wondering if she would be able to recognize other members of the Fellowship.

Boromir wasn't there. So used to his presence by now, she could tell from first glance whether or not the strong Gondorian was present in a room. She felt slightly disheartened to know that the only person she was familiar with wasn't close by.

Glorfindel was still preoccupied by others, surrounded by men and Elves alike.

Gandalf was conversing agitatedly with a Dwarf, while a white-bearded man only listened, the end of his staff hitting on the floor.

Lord Elrond caught her looking at him from across the hall, and slightly raised his chalice to her with an incline of his head.

She looked at the red liquid inside her chalice, and returned his gesture in kind.

Very nearly did she choke on it. _'This stuff is strong.'_

The young woman ate slowly, watching as more and more joined in the lively dancing in the center of the hall now that more were arriving. The two hobbits from before pulled each other into the spotlight, causing many an Elven maiden to laugh, as an Elf would nearly have to double over to partner with a hobbit.

And yet they do so with remarkable grace, the young woman thought in awe.

The dancing hobbits beckoned frantically to one side of the hall, to the row of empty seats where one lonely black-curled hobbit sat.

Frodo.

A young hobbit who, as he watched his friends make merry without the slightest care in the world, answered their invitation with a slow shake of his head and a wistful smile.

...She glanced back down at her plate.

...

"Would you mind if I sit here?"

His clear blue eyes glanced up briefly, before giving a small shake of his head and averting her eyes.

"...It's the first time I've seen hobbits before," the young woman said. To which there was no reply.

Then again, she just realized that if she 'hadn't ever seen hobbits' before, how would she have known that was what they were called? She had just made herself sound like a rude human who had just asked about them and had came over to observe them like they were freaks of nature.

She sucked in a breath. "How are you feeling?" she tried to amend.

The sinews in his neck moved as though swallowing, and with some audible reluctance he replied, "Better."

Silence ensued.

What was she doing? Why had she decided to come over here? Surely it wasn't to make him feel even more awkward and out of place.

Wringing her hands nervously, she wondered if there was anything she could do to fix the mess she made. Asking him to dance was out of the question. She couldn't dance, and he most very likely will reject her anyway.

Maybe she should just leave.

"You like rings?"

The question, so casual and innocent, almost had her jumping out of her skin.

"P-Pardon?" she croaked.

His clear blue eyes peered down pointedly at her hands, then up at her.

"...Ah...you mean these?" She held up her hands to give him a full view of her fingers—a plain metal band around each of them except for the thumbs.

What a relief that was what he had meant.

"Boromir's waist is thick as a trunk, you see," the young woman launched into exposition, arms encircling the air demonstratively before her.

Before she realized he didn't seem to know who or what 'Boromir' was.

"Er...Boromir is the man who brought me here. On horseback," she restarted at the beginning. "I didn't know how to ride, you see." Comprehension dawned slowly in his large blue eyes, and she was encouraged to continue.

"He size is quite large, and my arms would get tired easily clinging onto him," she explained with a small smile. "He had noticed this, and had made a stop at a nearby village to get a blacksmith to fashion these bands for me."

Lacing her fingers together, she demonstrated their binding effect. "See this? This way my fingers don't slip apart without meaning to, and I could relax easy. Quite ingenious of him, I'd say."

Frodo unexpectedly returned her smile with an appreciative one of his own. "You're right. I wouldn't have thought of something like that."

He had a nice smile.

They relapsed into silence, though this time slightly less awkward than the one before.

"And what are young, lively people such as yourselves doing here, sitting?"

Gandalf had suddenly sauntered into view, all evidence of his earlier troubles gone from his face.

When neither of them dared to answer, the Grey Wizard extended both hands, sleeves sliding back from his arms. He looked down from her, then to Frodo; one to the other as though inviting them both to dance with him.

"No, I-" she quickly protested with her hands.

Frodo also promptly stood and excused, "I think I best go back and rest, Gandalf. You two dance and enjoy yourselves."

Her jaw slackened at the betrayal, for now the sagely old man looked pointedly at her, hand insistent with the invitation.

"Well, I-..."

What could she do but to stand and accept?

But, an idea came to her. Frodo, who was guiltily averting his gaze, did not see the wry smile that tugged her mouth.

She grasped the hobbit firmly by his shoulders, and pushed him toward Gandalf's awaiting arms.

"Hey-!"

"Hohoho!" She laughed as Gandalf did; the bearded wizard didn't seem to mind who it was as long as it was one of them. He swept the hobbit so jovially and ridiculously through the other dancers that soon enough, Frodo couldn't help but to be taken along by his good mood and laughed with him.

Watching them gave her such a lighthearted feeling. Maybe she would stay a little longer.

Chuckling, she went back to her seat. Who knew that, even in her predicament, she could find a simple scene such as this so entertaining? Was Elven wine a little too strong for her?

She shook her head and sat down, only to bolt upright immediately.

The young woman looked down, horrified, into the deep blue eyes of a _very_ handsome, and, must she say, _very _surprised blonde Elf.

* * *

**A/N: **Bear with me, readers. I will (attempt to) answer to the apparent plot-holes found in this chapter in due time.

Oh, and if you do have any suggestions of what you would like to see in my fanfic, I should like to hear them.


	2. Uncertain Fate

**A/N: **A slight change in the previous chapter: I've misconstrued a 'long dagger' to be the same as the 'long knife'. Pretend I wrote 'long knife' in the previous chapter lol.

* * *

**Myjusta, Witch Maiden**

Chapter 2 - _"Uncertain Fate"_

* * *

The past few days have been uneventful, and she preferred it that way.

After making a great fool of herself by having sat down on the lap of her favourite 'Lord of the Rings' character in her adolescent years—Legolas's lap—she had apologized profusely and had made straight for the exit. Glorfindel had paused her, but she had muttered the excuse of 'trying to make a tactful retreat' and not even he could have stayed her. Needless to say, she wasn't going back there again, ever.

Unnngh. She had toyed with the notion that maybe it had been just a poor random Elf she had terrified with her absent-headedness, but no matter how she recounted it... His features; the silver circlet on his head signifying that he was someone of importance; and his companion-friends who flanked him like attendants. If that hadn't been Legolas, the prince of Mirkwood, she had no clue who else he might've been.

It had been so embarrassing, she probably wouldn't ever be able to look back and laugh about it.

Taking a break in her stroll, the young woman sat down on the stone bench inside the courtyard—taking care that no one was already seated, of course.

The past few days she spent laying on the bench outside her terrace, or wandering throughout the wonder that was Rivendell. Most of the time no one deterred her from exploring, and whenever she was stopped by Elvish speakers she only needed to tuck her hair behind her ears. They seemed to have understood from just that.

Although, she was also growing extremely restless without a sketch of where she was to go from here.

With a heavy heart she rose up.

"It appears the hospitality of Elves is treating you well," Boromir's familiar voice commented. She looked to see him agilely descending the white steps into the courtyard. "Glow returns to your cheeks."

The young woman looked down. "I thought you might've forgotten me once you've reached Rivendell," she said. So he still hadn't left, had he?

She kicked at a pebble at her feet. And missed.

When was the Council taking place, anyway? ...Or had it already taken place?

"Yet another matter I should make amends for," Boromir admitted his guilt.

Clean-shaven, and scrubbed of dirt and sweat, he was in actually a very good looking man. Before she had seen the Elves, she would've described him as gorgeous. But, well, the utter perfection of Elves happened to knock everyone else down a notch.

He stood before her, now, and was large enough to shadow over her. "You were speaking true:" he absently brushed aside the tendril of hair in her eyes "You are no 'witch'. If I were more level-headed I would have seen it myself with all those signs. Yet I refused to allow myself, and for that I deserve the anguish I have brought upon me."

Boromir shifted his weight, behaving as sheepish as one could for a man of his size. He took her hand in his, and bowed a light kiss over it in apology. "Forgive me?"

...

"I will admit," the young woman responded, "...I felt a little betrayed." His grey eyes sought hers remorsefully. "...But you were gallant and patient, despite not trusting me," she smiled a little, "I don't know whether that makes you stubborn or just foolish, you foolish man."

He burst into laughter. "Well if you insisted on saying it twice, then it must be the latter," the Gondorian captain agreed good-naturedly.

...It was good to feel his familiarity again.

Eager to postpone his inevitable absence a little while longer, the young woman smiled knowingly and asked, "So, Captain...how are you planning to make amends?"

His grey eyes turned thoughtful for a long moment, then cleared.

"Lady Myjusta!" She startled in alarm at his abrupt change of tone. The lax look on his face was gone, replaced by the mask of utter resolve she knew so well. "You thought you were let off the hook as soon as you reached Rivendell?"

Her eyebrows flew up in bewilderment.

"Abandon the notion that I am unable to know;" Boromir advised with a frown. "You have forsaken your training."

"But-"

"You will make up for your slothfulness!' He commanded her, in a tone that brooked no argument, "Thirty press-ups before each meal instead of twenty, and five laps around the Misty Trails ere each noon!"

She couldn't _sworn_ she heard her jaw crack as it dropped slack in shock. The drillmaster was back.

...So..._this_ was how he thought about making amends?

"You wanted to learn the ways of a sword-wielder." Boromir released her hand with a shrug of his head. He recalled vividly the crestfallen expression she wore when he had told her she was better suited for lighter blades. "Show me your resolve by honouring that schedule for this entire week, and I will reconsider it."

She blinked up at him quizzically.

"...You...mean it...?" Even though he had denied her so pragmatically before.

...She weighed her laziness against her curiosity to know about swords...

"There will come times when all you can find is a fallen sword," Boromir conceded as one who spoke from past experience. "I am not against teaching you the basics."

She would've felt quite enthusiastic by then, if not for the former half of his statements.

...

"...Is there...a reason why you would insist I keep up my training...?" the young woman asked uncertainly.

Uncertainty had become a close acquaintance of hers of late. Why, she even knew when a wave was coming for her before she felt it.

"A woman alone in the world ought to know how to defend herself." His next words Boromir did lament, but confessed nevertheless, "I will rest easier knowing this when I have gone."

Ah...That's right...

She couldn't expect that Boromir would protect her forever... Soon, very soon, they would part ways.

One way or another, she would have to learn to fend for herself in this new and hostile world.

* * *

By the third morning after that, she was seriously reconsidering her decision.

Leaning into a nearby boulder while attempting to catch her breath, she glared after the Elfling boy as he passed her for the _third _time since she started on her first lap.

And she could've _sworn _he wore a smirk on his face each time.

Honestly, like rubbing salt on someone's wound. Weren't Elves supposed to be serene and-...and-..._compassionate _or something?

...

It was high noon by the time she trudged, near-dead, back into the clearing before the forest trails.

To her surprise she saw that further up the path, the Lord of Rivendell, Elrond, awaited.

Ah...she had expected to see him sooner or later. She felt a little ashamed that she hadn't managed to gather enough courage to go speak to him on her own accord, but she had rationalized that he was an individual with much more important matters to attend to.

She swallowed hard, calming her breath before speaking. "Good day, my lord. You wish to speak to me?"

The Elven lord extended a regal, long sleeved arm to her; his gaze commanding. "Will you join me for a stroll?"

...She went forward and complied.

"I regret I had not the time to see to your comforts personally," the Elven lord said casually just as a handful of Elven ladies passed by not too far away. He nodded them his greeting. "I hope you have adapted well: treat this place as your home."

'Home', he had said.

...

"...You are kind, my lord," the young woman answered in murmured tones. "Your household has been most hospitable. I truly can see this place as a second home..."

Something in the way she had said it must have transmitted her dejection to him.

"I have no doubt your home is a much fairer, and safer, place than this," Elrond observed. They reached the start of the thin path leading to a quiet garden, and the Elven lord motioned for her to go first.

She didn't know about 'fairer', but safer, yes. Back home she didn't have to lose sleep each night worrying about what the next day may bring.

"Tell me what you can remember, before strange fate has brought you here."

She had seen this coming the moment she saw him before the trails. Inwardly she was thankful he was considerate enough to choose an open space.

"...It's...surprisingly lackluster," the young woman breathed, feeling the tremor in her breath, "compared to what one may expect."

"Pray, speak on with no restraint," Lord Elrond's voice encouraged.

...

"Well...I-..." She felt the familiar pull of her mind, the way it tried to detach itself whenever she tried verbally recounting the events. She fought to regain herself.

"I...I was studying, preparing for an exam. I was pulling an all-nighter—er, was up late, and then-" She said quickly and decidedly, "And then I was here."

Elrond's calm authority reached her smoothly. "I, myself, hardly believe that is all there is to it."

...

"Well, maybe...maybe there was something," she confessed, but added quickly, "It's a small thing; hardly important."

"Speak."

...

She swallowed.

"I have..." stomping down her embarrassment, she confessed, "heard songs. At first, when I was dreaming. Then, several times they linger while I was slipping back to consciousness. But, never before-..." She grimaced. "That night, I must've had the song somewhere in the back of my mind. I remember the eerie feeling...the feeling when I've turned around and suddenly the sounds were abrupt in my ears."

Frightened, she had been. It had been hours past midnight and her were had gone home for the weekend. None was in the house except for her, and it had been soundless. She would've believed herself haunted.

"And afterwards, what transpired?"

She chanced a glance at the majestic Elf behind her. Nothing could be discerned from the Elven lord's expression, save a deep concentration.

"I found myself in midst of an Orc raid," the young woman said indifferently as she could, and in a tone that meant 'can we possibly not go into that any further?' A proposition the Elven lord thankfully accepted.

"I will hear more about these 'singing'," Lord Elrond commanded. "Was it always the same song? A solo, or a multitude of voices? Is it female, or male?"

She was quickly overwhelmed by his questions. "It-...It was female. Solo-...no, I don't know; It's been a while. Look," the young woman reasoned with an embarrassed shake of her head, "it's not important. I don't think it has to do with anything. Why, I even study things like this in my major."

"This is researched in your world?" Elrond demanded suddenly, surprising her. "This singing?"

"No-" confused and aghast by his reaction, she quickly elaborated, "Auditory hallucinations; visual hallucinations; symptoms of psychosis." She muttered under her breath, "I'm at the appropriate age range, too."

"Psychosis?" It was a new term for him, she suspected. Those sharp eyes regarded her in appraisal. "By that, you mean-"

"An abnormality of the human mind, if you will." Oh, she couldn't believe she was talking about this. "'Schizophrenia', if I were to diagnose myself. The only reason why I hadn't thought myself completely insane was because...I could still rationalize that I was experiencing these ridiculous events _because_ I was going insane. If that makes any sense." A schizophrenic simply couldn't be rationalized out of his or her bizarre delusions, believing them to be real regardless how ridiculous. "But, hey," she said weakly to herself, "there's still opportunity for me yet."

She recalled the initial shock. The, oh yes, the confusion ,and the fear. Then came denial; The part when she was being interrogated by humans, she was still wondering if they have forgotten their lines whenever there came a long pause. Loss. And finally, acceptance.

Acceptance, because, no matter how crazy the notion and how ridiculous her circumstances were, she wanted to live. To survive another day, just another day. Live with herself another day.

In her adolescence she had wondered what would happen to someone if they were to dream vividly that they have died. Truly dead, and not just wake up at the last instant. What if, just what if, an oversensitive mind accepted it as truth and decided to shut down all bodily functions?

She didn't want to find out.

...

Clearing her throat nervously, she said, "So, you see, a part of me still hesitates on what to put my trust in. At this point, I don't think I care as long as I can return to normalcy."

Lord Elrond was silent as he contemplated all this, eyes downcast with a visible frown on his brow.

Part of her was glad he wasn't quick to reassure her that all of it was real; that it wasn't a simple dream or delusion. She didn't think she would've been able to keep her composure.

When he spoke, the regal Elf's voice had a calming effect over her. "If I may be privy to your plans from here?"

She played with the rings on her fingers. "I...would hope you would allow me to stay...until Lord Boromir departs."

Almost immediately she realized she might've said too much. Boromir never specifically stated he was to leave, and to part with her at Rivendell. Maybe Elrond had noticed?

His gaze was astute, discerning. "So you are aware."

She dropped her gaze.

...

She spoke, if only to interrupt the oppressive silence. "If it's true that I am hunted, I don't wish to bring trouble upon your people, my lord. I will leave from here," she said.

"And where," Lord Elrond inquired patiently, "do you endeavor to go?"

She was uncannily reminded of a parent trying to talk sense into an idealistic child.

Why? Was it so unrealistic to expect her to find ways to cope with living among other humans of this reality? Admittedly the idea would've caused her debilitating distress a little over four months ago. But, if she had survived Orcs-... She shook free of that trail of thoughts.

Keeping her thoughts to herself, the young woman said, "...I was hoping you might counsel me on that, my lord."

He turned to her fully, locking her into his enthralling gaze. "Go to Mithlond, the Grey Havens. Círdan the Shipwright will offer you sanctuary."

Because she could only draw up a blank look, he continued, "It is an Elvish settlement in the northwest; far from the reaches of our enemies."

"Ah." Although...did she have any idea how to get there?

"It is a journey well traveled by my people bound for the Elvish ports," she was informed without having to ask. Lord Elrond turned to gaze, presumably, in the direction of the ports he spoke of. "You will join a company once the woods are cleared," his stern eyes returned to her, "and, as you wished, when the Fellowship have gone its way. Rest assured that you will be quite safe in the company of Elves."

Lowering her gaze, the young woman nodded mutely. Strange land. Stranger culture. And for a time undetermined.

His tone became gentle, and sympathetic. "My child, this is also for your sake."

She wanted to laugh. She must seem like an ungrateful child. She felt like one, too.

But she swallowed down her desire to immediately return home—which she knew to be an impossible prospect—and inclined her head to him in respect.

"The kindness you have given me, I hope I will be able to repay," she said softly, though proud that her voice was even this time. "If I may have some time alone, my lord..."

A gesture of his arm indicated she was free to go.

...She paused at the edge of the garden. Knowing his eyes were still on her, the young woman turned back slowly.

"...If you would ask..." she quietly said "...I would tell you all that I know."

A small shake of his head. "You would tell me an undetermined fate." Wise and knowledgeable eyes beheld her. "Your presence, and your presence alone, may have already altered its course. Furthermore," the Elven lord forestalled whatever she was about to offer, "What knowledge is yours may not be yours alone. Until we can ascertain what forces have brought you here, it would be wise not to speak of it." The look he gave her was cautioning, and meaningful.

"...Your lordship is wise," she said, a little shamefully, "I did not think far enough." She had not considered the possibility that some greater evil could be using her as a pawn. How egocentric of her. How painful. "Pardon my naivety, please."

He inclined his head, indicating that her response was acceptable.

"Then...please excuse me."

"Myjusta." His voice halted her just as she was to turn around.

She looked back curiously. He had said that name so naturally, it gave rise to an inexplicable feeling.

"The Hall of Fire misses your presence," Lord Elrond informed her gravely.

She blinked a few times. Well, she was perfectly fine with it missing her presence, than for her to actually be there and to make more fool out of herself.

"I have three hobbits inquiring about a certain human female so clumsy with her feet, Gandalf would rather sprain his back dancing with a hobbit." The slight quirk of an eyebrow, and the telltale tug on the edge of his mouth gave him away.

She laughed. The Lord of Rivendell had a sense of humour, and she was glad to know. "Alright."


	3. Pathways

**A/N: **Hmm...I haven't decided if I should try the characterization of Legolas and Gimli from the movie or the book perspective. Maybe a mixture...but that could make them seem OOC from both points of view lol.

* * *

**Myjusta, Witch Maiden**

Chapter 3 - _"Pathways"_

* * *

...Alright, she could do this.

...

He did not notice her presence, so engrossed was he in the parchments before him.

She approached with great care, witnessing him twirling the quill between his thumb and index finger, placing it down against the parchment, and then drew his wrist back again. After a pensive moment he tore away the page and started anew.

Whatever he was writing seemed to be giving him much difficulty: His dark hair was tousled from the amount of headshaking it caused him, and a frown was evident on his brow. The white horn of Gondor lay across his lap, glimmering in the sunlight. It became clear to her at that moment.

The mighty hero of Gondor was torn on how to answer to his father, the Steward of Gondor.

And if it were better to write home at all.

...

The young woman hesitated. He really had spoiled her too much: Here she was thinking that she much preferred the self-assured and good-humoured captain; her invincible protector to the way he appeared now.

...If only there was something she could do for him, in return for all the care he had showered upon her. But, she was loathed to admit, what could a formidable man like him desire from someone like her? She had nothing useful to offer to someone of this time period. The most she could do...was to not get in his way.

Drawing in a breath, the young woman advanced a few paces.

"Lord Boromir."

...He looked to her with some surprise. It was either because he hadn't expected her this early, or that she had picked up the salutation of laying one hand over her heart and bowing. Well, no one would expect her to curtsy while wearing a tunic, right?

"To what do I owe this pleasure of an early visit?" As he spoke the Gondorian captain got up with the lenient ease of a fine-honed warrior, setting possessions to one side. The roguish smile that was second nature to him revealed itself as soon as the surprise had waned.

No, no, no. Don't let his smile affect anything.

"I have a confession to make," the young woman said bravely. "...One you may not come to like."

"Oh?" The man of Gondor came to stand before her, laying a hand over his heart as he kept his face politely impassive. "Do speak your mind, dear lady, and it shall be done."

...She was certain that was only his way of showing that he was listening intently, but she couldn't help faltering under his direct gaze.

"That is...about my...sword training..."

The young woman laced her fingers together, wishing she had chosen the exact words beforehand. Alright, she could do this. Tactfully.

_' Yes, regarding that matter... You see, I'm to be left in the protection of the Elves. That being the case...'_

"...I know you're a busy man with your own things to worry about..."

_'No, no, no; It's not because I can't last out simple exercise like these. Definitely not.'_

"So I was wondering if you would um...let me..." She risked peering up anxiously at his inquisitive grey eyes... "...let me..."

...and felt her courage dwindling down to nothingness.

"...Teach me?" she croaked.

* * *

It had probably taken only three days for Boromir to realize she wasn't any warrior material. She was too weak, too faint-hearted, and too frequently distracted by others users of the training grounds to take advantage of the expertise he had to offer. No number of loud scolds nor extra drills seemed to have changed that.

Even so, being a man of his word, he was not about to let her off so easily.

"Here," Boromir had said upon tossing her a light axe on the fourth day since they've started. "Confine yourself not to the skill of a single weapon. You're no true warrior until you can cleave through plate armour!"

And the next day. "You will get to know the handling of a shield. Don't even think of stepping foot into a battlefield if you cannot manage both sword and shield!"

The day after that, a spear. "There are times when you have to compensate for your reach."

He banned her from ever handling a flail the day following that, when she gave him a nasty bruise on his forearm—that had come from shielding her head from harm.

All her muscles were exhausted by the time Boromir introduced her to the bow. Her arms ached so much, she never was able to make the full draw.

"As I thought," the man of Gondor declared as she lay face-down on the soft carpet of grass—unable to complete the press-ups required of her. "You are best suited for long knives or short swords."

He gave up on her so easily, she thought. But she was too tired to comment.

"Alas, we have to compensate for your reach, somehow," the man thought aloud to himself. "So tomorrow-"

"Rest. Please." Her plea was promptly ignored.

He commanded, "Same place, and no later than midday."

...

By midday the next day, she felt like she was a porcupine with ingrown quills. Fortunately she made it there before the Gondorian did, for he didn't take kindly to her making him wait. Unfortunately he arrived shortly after, and witnessed her slacking on the bench.

"Here." He dropped a wooden crate beside her on the bench. "You will work with these today."

Upon peering curiously within, she saw that there were knives. Many shapes and sizes. Although...

"These are even shorter than the long knife," she stated the obvious. Didn't he say something about her being disadvantaged against large foes with her stature and weapon length?

"That is because, _my dear lady_," Boromir replied patronizingly, with a curt tilt of his head, "these are called 'throwing knives'."

Her eyebrows went up.

To demonstrate, the arms master snatched up a knife, expertly tossing and catching it in the palm of his hand.

His grey eyes locked confidently onto a target not to far from them, and Boromir quirked a glance back at her with the wordless command of, 'Watch'.

So she watched, still stupefied over being made into a rogue character, as the man threw the blade—and missed his target by a wide margin.

Boromir gave her a full-bodied shrug and said simply, _"Practice."_

* * *

And so she did.

And, well...

It's not like she minded a spectator but...

...why was he mimicking all of her failures?

"Hey you," the human female crossed her arms and demanded of the young Elf, who was currently reenacting the way she had accidentally nicked herself earlier, "Don't you have anything else to do?"

Naturally he didn't understand her words. Yet, almost graciously, the Elf flourished a bow to her.

At the appearance of her scowl, he laughed heartily.

Until the tip of a wizard's staff came down on top of his head_._

_"Ai!" _The Elfling blanched as a very foreboding, very indignant Grey Wizard loomed over him and spoke down at him in admonishment. With a toss of his great sleeve, Gandalf shooed the little one off.

The wizard then turned to her, and his kind face broke out a smile.

"That was Veryan," Gandalf informed her dutifully, as though divulging a secret. "He is the only youngling you will find in Imladris; and quite spoiled by the way the others view his begetting as a blessing."

The young woman sheathed her blade with a confused frown. "...I'm not sure how I offended him."

That caused Gandalf to shake his head, chuckling. "He is only curious about you:" His long robes rustled as he descended the steps of the courtyard. "Human females are rare in these parts, even less so are ones who wield to fight." He stopped less than two arm's length before her and inclined slightly his head. "I must ask your pardon on his behalf."

She lifted a small smile. How could she ever refuse a request from someone as kind and farsighted as Gandalf? "I'll forgive him. Since he is younger than me."

Cough. Gandalf gripped both hands on his staff, and hastily proclaimed, "What is age, but the limit on one's lifespan?" Wise eyebrows quirked upwards. "The Elves never held qualms over befriending any whom they have deemed worthy."

...A rather awkward silence ensued as she was thoroughly confused by his statement...

"Presumably you await the Son of Gondor?" Gandalf inquired in a change of topic.

"...Yes?" She had the feeling she missed something there, but nevermind that.

"I am afraid the meeting will last a while yet for just the two of them," Gandalf informed her knowingly. "The man found out presently, you see, on the matter of Elrond's plans where you are concerned."

...Ah...

While Boromir had never mentioned what he meant to do with her, she knew he must have had _some _idea in mind; It was unlikely the honourable man would leave her so lost and friendless.

Maybe...it would have been better if she had at least spoken to him, before she had agreed to Lord Elrond's request on her own.

"He is inclined to speak on behalf of your honour," Gandalf's amused voice interjected into her flurried thoughts. "No, he would not leave you to the care of the Elves like some prisoner: an insinuation by all accounts has Lord Elrond answering with chagrin."

The young woman was horrified by that revelation. Gandalf, on the other hand, simply chuckled at the turn of events. "It would appear the Man of Gondor knows not of your secrets. Tell me, Child," the old wizard questioned with keen interest, "How came it that you would reveal your knowledge to us, and not to the man who was with you; consoled you and protected you; for a good quarter of a year since you came to this land?" A knowing look. "Not due to the negligence of the humans while they interrogated you, I'm sure."

...Well...

He was right.

Feeling a bit uncomfortable in his assessing gaze, the young woman turned a little to the side.

"It's just...I hadn't realized it at first," she confessed quietly. "And later, when I have..." It was around the same time Boromir had started warming up to her. The instant he had rewarded her with a good-humoured grin, she had known she couldn't be without it. "...There never seemed to be the right time to tell him."

Sighing, she glanced back at the watchful wizard. "Don't worry, Gandalf. I won't tell anyone what I know, nor do I plan to interfere with this world. I will obey yours and Lord Elrond's wishes and go forth to Mithlond."

"Ah, yes..." Musingly, Gandalf responded, "It is Elrond's insistence that your knowledge must never be exposed or shared. Why, if it were up to Elrond, I suspect he would even have you tossed into the fires of Mount Doom much like another article of great threat."

As she looked at him in wide-eyed shock, Gandalf's long bushy eyebrows wiggled in humour, revealing that it had been a joke.

That was a little...

The great-bearded wizard leaned forward on his staff, and his honest blue eyes beheld her as his voice lowered itself in secrecy. "I, myself, am not of the same mind."

"...Hm?" Having felt scandalized by his joke just now, she was wary of the cryptic wizard's intentions toward her.

"I believe," said Gandalf with an enlightened and unhurried demeanor, "that you were brought here, speaking the Common Tongue— not the language of Elves—for a reason." He drew an uncanny power to his words, and an unfathomable understanding in his eyes. "...I doubt you were meant to hide away your time in their midst, in a far corner of the world."

...Slowly, she lolled her head to one side. "...I don't understand," the young woman admitted.

The wizard mirrored her movement, though his was for emphasis. "Surely you were not with the assumption that two very different worlds would have developed the exact same speech?"

"But..."

...but that was exactly what she had thought. Was he..._really_ trying to get her to apply logic to an already fantastical reality?

"Myjusta!"

Was she ever so glad to hear the Gondorian captain's voice.

Boromir approached her quickly, agitation in his brisk steps. "Mithrandir, I apologize but I must interrupt as there is a matter of import," he addressed the wizard, and in the same breath turned his heavy gaze on her and told her, "Come with me."

She noticed the presence of Elrond following from behind. The Lord of Rivendell stopped before the steps, and only looked on with an impassive face.

The young woman inclined her head in respect, shortly before she was led away by the elbow.

"I fail to recall you telling me about your plans," Boromir said stiffly as he drove them from the salient presence of the Elf Lord and wizard.

"I meant to..." she could only reply. They reached the bottom of the long flights of stairs where it was quiet and unoccupied.

"Elves, Myjusta?" He halted abruptly, wiping a hand over his brow. "You go with them and there _is_ no telling the next time you will see a human settlement." And before she could respond, he forestalled, "I know you must have fear. That is no thanks to my doing for not making myself clear." He paused for a breath. "I know some people. Good people. On my honour I swear they will not mistreat you."

...Her gaze lowered to the ground. Though she didn't understand it very well, there was...pain. Pain knowing that he seemed not to expect to meet her again.

"The Elves can help me," she said quietly. "They may be able to return me to my world."

His turn to hesitate, the deliberation evident on his fair face. "Grave are these measures taken for assistance," Boromir persisted upon recovery. "Certainly they do not need you under their watchful eye every hour until the time comes when Mithrandir has an answer. It is preposterous."

Silent for a moment, she weighed her next words. He waited for them. He had always practiced that patience for her, which was something she was grateful for and would never forget.

"I have not been...entirely honest with you," the young woman confessed at long last. "There is good reason why they are cautious..." Awkwardly, she laid a hand on his arm. "But to go with the Elves...that is my own choice."

She dared not meet his eyes. Afraid that he would question. Afraid he would realize.

"Are any of them forcing you in this?"

Surprise caused her to blink up.

"You can confide in me," Boromir told her in hushed tones. "Were it left to you, doubtless this would not have been your choice."

His statement filled her with puzzlement. "...What do you mean?" she asked unsurely. "This is the choice I made."

"My lady," said Boromir dryly, as though he was being taken for a fool, "Three weeks hence you lived among Elves and have shown only the barest interest in their culture as decorum dictates. You keep to yourself, make no effort to learn their language, and were it not for my presence need I suspect you would lock yourself in your room all day? How is that any indication of your long-term desire to remain with them?" He questioned her assuredly, grey eyes searching.

She was silent for another long moment. The humming of waterfalls that was constant in the background filled her ears.

Shame...and guilt...the two emotions strummed through her. Shame, because it was true that she had made no effort on her own, and moreover he had noticed. Guilt, because somewhere in her depths she must still be relying on this man. It had caused him needless burden.

"...That is harsh assessment, my lord," she replied with some practiced calm. "I feel at home here... I have found friends." She could lie to him because she knew. She knew he was never one to corner her with anything she was not ready to admit.

"I know better than anyone that you feel responsible for me," the young woman continued carefully. "Over three months you took in putting up with my worldly ignorance, braving great perils, bringing me to Rivendell. Your burden should have ended there."

Forestalling an indignant protest, she told him, "Don't worry..." She presented him with a faint smile. "Regardless the world I'm in, I am a grown up. I can survive on my own." A tad nervously, she peered up at his bold, searching eyes. "I want you to believe that I can make my own decisions."

Boromir held her stare, serious, contemplating, yet not resigned. "Myjusta-"

"Please, do not concern yourself with my affairs any longer," she told him.

It was only after taking a few steps away was she able to breath easily again. "Also..." she hesitated long on that one "...you don't need to train me anymore."

Offering no explanation nor justification, she nodded her leave.

* * *

"Merry, what is that?"

"I don't know, Pippin. It's got eyes. And a horrid looking mouth. Don't suppose that is how an Orc looks like, do you?"

She peered over their shoulders and saw with distress that she had missed one. Without further ado she speared the failure of a bread bun with her fork and, reaching over the two gaping hobbits, retrieved it for her plate.

Well, what do you know. Her knife throwing practice came in handy after all.

"You going to finish all that?" an astonished Sam asked when she took a seat across from him. "Do you see that, Mister Frodo? I daresay someone's got a healthier appetite than I have."

Yeah. That ought to teach her not to help out in the kitchens again.

"It's the first time you joined us for breakfast," Frodo commented, smiling at her with bright blue eyes. She was pleasantly surprised to find that he seemed to be in better spirits.

She replied courteously, "This isn't my usual breakfast time."

If she hadn't been warmed up and wide awake by sunrise, there would be Boromir the harsh taskmaster to answer to.

But that was...behind her now.

"Are you going to join us in the library today?" she was asked by an inquisitive Frodo.

She raised an eyebrow at the unexpected question.

"What's she got to do there, Mister Frodo?" Sam asked a tad begrudgingly. "Sure would like spending the day out myself, rather than poring over those old maps."

Maps? She wouldn't mind taking a good look at the land she was in.

"I thought she might," Frodo remarked to Sam with a half-grin. "The man from Gondor offered to help us today in our path finding."

She swallowed. "I will pass..."

Was it common knowledge by now that she was inseparable from the Gondorian?

The remainder of breakfast she ate in silence, aside from occasionally being peppered by questions from Merry, and having to fend off Pippin's curious hands from the monstrosities on her plate.

Her stomach was quite upset with her by the late afternoon.

In response she rested by the arched windows in the hallway of second floor. It had the best view over the valley, she had found. The sight of the water's peaceful flow comforted her.

Little dark shapes moved along the curved hill path.

Riders. Guessing from the speed they're moving.

Curious, she stood atop the windowsill for a better look. By then the foremost three of the riders have come into view: Two dark figures followed shortly behind by a figure in white. She dropped back down into the hallway and sped.

There was already a gathering at the gates of Elrond's House when the riders rode up to it. The first among them—a dark-haired Elf garbed in dark umber and black—practically flew in dismounting his steed, and without hesitation started barking out orders in his powerful voice.

She recognized Glorfindel, the white figure on his white steed getting down, bracing a dark garbed stranger in his arms.

There were wounded, the young woman realized. More riders were coming up, now, and some toppling over with wear whereas others supported comrades unfit to ride on their own.

Lord Elrond's commands rang above the clamouring, and it was with steady authority that he directed the injured be carried to the healing wing. While that was happening, the three figures remounted: Glorfindel, and the two dark-haired Elves who looked suspiciously alike. One of the two drew his blade and held it overhead, shouting with an air of authority resembling that of Lord Elrond's.

She moved out of the way as new riders—heavy lancers and mounted longbowmen—answered the rally of the Elf Lord. With banners flying and grim determination on their faces, the riders made off. As swiftly and violently as they came.

...What had that been about? The young woman wondered uneasily.

She sought out the Lord of Rivendell with her gaze, and found him outside the gates with one of the hooded and dark-garbed strangers. Though their conversation alternated between the Common Tongue and the language of Elves, she got the gist that the Elf Lord was upset by the fact they have brought a thing of atrocities into the tranquil peace of his House.

By that, she knew they referred to the hideous form laying in the middle of the path. It had been...dragged here...by horses she presumed, though the ropes have since been cut.

_"...-We thought you ought to see this, my liege_-..."

She didn't know to hear to know what it was—rather, what it had been. Reflexively she shielded her eyes, heartbeat hammering inside her ears. Though not before it caught her eyes.

_"...-These are no mere Orcs, my lord. Not with one shot can you bring down these monsters, nor two; nor three. Their armour is thick but they are tireless, and ordered, and cunning-..." _

Against her better judgment she went towards it.

...

It was larger than the ones she had-...it was a lot tougher looking. Though no less ugly. What had caught her eyes was neither of those traits, however.

That white handprint on its breastplate, stark in contrast against the black.

_"...-Though most frightening of all is that they will _assist. _When weakness in their formation is exploited, they do not simply route-..."_

What was that? That handprint...

The contour was not large enough to belong to a man. Yet it wasn't a child's.

It was almost as if...

As if she were to put her hand down on it...

...wouldn't it be...

"Myjusta!" Lord Elrond's voice rang out disapprovingly. Her heart lurched up and lodged itself inside her throat.

The young woman looked back, dazed, lost, confused.

She wondered when Gandalf had come to stand beside the Elf Lord, and, furthermore...

...she wondered about the weighed resignation on his face.


End file.
